it has been a while. but the writer needs to write. Two books more or less done. the last full stop. how often have I siad that - more then more editing, re-writing, tweaking, polishing, dusting, then more final full-stops, until perhaps any more changing would make it a different book. A time maybe to say for now that's you. Is this computers? I remember writing a book at the bright age of 22 and any changes had to be carefully aligned - once typix had dried into a thick white blob, then hopefully the new word or even letter would more or less line up with the rest. Laziness I note creeps in. Back then I rarely made any spelling mistakes, now the words correct themselves and I have given up even trying to spell conciousness but actually think I just got it.
I note my last post was on Valentine's day. Since then the snow has melted, the daffodils are past their peak, the hens venture further each brave new day and the breeding sea-birds are chattering loudly on the craggy ledges. The hen with the broken leg is hobbling along with the others now and managing fine - so close she came to soup now look at her.
I thought - why bother blogging, no-one except my darling supportive signs reads it then I think - suddenly here - needing this now books have had their final stop till next one - I need it. It rights my world and tunes me the way I want to be tuned. Without it - the writing - I slump into a poorer vision, duller hearing, slower brain fog. Am trying to waken my word sound life. Just been to the beach with dog and stood on sand with cliffs at my back and nestled in them several pairs of fulmars. Trying for a sound poem

ka kakakaka
ke eheheheh
ke ke ke ke
wishhhh shushhhh washhhh
ho wah shaoshhh shhhhh shhhh woshhhhh
kak kak kak
akakakak eh eh eh eh eh eh eh

it's hard and staccatto over soft and flowing then my feet pressing and releasing the sand and my voice calling the dog, my voice like a bark. April and there's too many holes in the ground full of new life. The too many is because of the dog and her sniffing and eagerness to get to them - like those tiny naked rabbits she unearthed - little pink vulnerable freshnesses. April's full of it - full of hopeful holes in the ground.